by Don Two
A strange van has been parked across the street for a week.
|A Chevy van across the street,
parked for a week, I think it so.
Red ladders stacked upon the roof.
I have no proof yet I’m inclined
to grab suspicion by the throat
and shake it till it comes to life!
I cannot see through darkened glass,
and thus, alas! My mind does race
to wonder why it says, Laundry,
so brightly red in comic sans.
You’d think an upright business would
(as well it should) have numbers there.
This is no legit business van;
it’s like a man without a face.
Perhaps a danger for us all;
so from my hall, I phone the law.
While waiting for the police to come
I twiddle thumbs and lick parched lips.
Inside the van a clicking sound
and then a pounding, as if death
is so confined to wield old bones,
to transmit tones through vinyl side.
Within my gut I feel heap sick;
it has to pick on me this day
as out the back of van they pour,
green zombies more or less alive
with drops of blood from rotting chins;
then I begin my trembling.
Police cruiser comes, they rush the car
(oh my they are a vicious bunch.)
All this to see November in;
I pass on lunch, and mourn the dead.
Writer’s Cramp Winner